


Trapped

by minniemoments



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Claustrophobia, Explicit Language, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Haphephobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minniemoments/pseuds/minniemoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It started as a need. This pleasant sensation of being secure. Nothing changed. That’s what he tells himself. Recites those two words like a prayer - a prayer that could be the truth if he believed it enough. He doesn’t believe it. It’s not a need. It’s a want. But nothing changed. Nothing changed… Except something did. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe he knew what was happening, deep down. He craves that feeling of being cared for, secured. It’s like he’ll float away or sink into the depths if he doesn’t get his fix.</p><p>Scott was his drug and his dealer."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely canon divergent. If that's not your cup of tea, I'd duck out now. Enjoy!

He could feel the walls closing in, smothering him, crushing him. His vision was faulty; he felt like a camera struggling to focus on an object. Lights dimming. Room shaking. Body shivering. Why did he feel so cold? He wanted to scream, needed to, but the only thing that escaped his throat was a growl. Claws erupted from his fingertips and if he could just scrape away at the walls, maybe they would stop moving... “Isaac!” he heard vaguely. He’d see who it was, but the walls... Fuck. The walls. They moved. They had to have moved. Why does it feel so tight? “ISAAC!” yelled the voice again. Scott, it was Scott’s voice. He came to and looked around frantically. Nothing, so dark. There was nothing, nothing, nothing to see at all…

When he woke up, Scott’s face was the first thing he saw. He looked worried. Others were asking things like “Is he okay?” and “Is he conscious?”. He? He who?  
“Isaac, snap out of it!” commanded Scott.  
He managed a nonchalant response like he always does, coupled with one of his iconic smirks. A collective sigh and a few disbelieving smiles signaled that all was well again.

***

This began to occur more often than not: Isaac freaking out, Scott calming him down. It could have been the alpha-beta dynamic - Derek was always a fan of that idea -, but it seems simpler than that. Or is it more complex? It _felt_ simple, less complicated. Scott felt like a totem to ground him. His voice was something to hold on to; something to pull him up; something to get lost in. He didn’t bother to label what this sense of security was. It was easier to accept the idea that someone would be there for him. It should scare him, make him want to shut out the alpha; instead he welcomed the sanctuary.

***

It started as a need. This pleasant sensation of being secure. Nothing changed. That’s what he tells himself. Recites those two words like a prayer - a prayer that could be the truth if he believed it enough. He doesn’t believe it. It’s not a need. It’s a want. But nothing changed. Nothing changed… Except something did. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe he knew what was happening, deep down. He craves that feeling of being cared for, secured. It’s like he’ll float away or sink into the depths if he doesn’t get his fix.

Scott was his drug and his dealer.

***

_There were four walls. The one in front of him had scratch marks in sets of four, each set going this way and that. There was a stinging sensation in the tips of his fingers and a dull ache to his biceps. His. The scratch marks belonged to him._ Deep breaths. One. Two. Three. _The fourth came out shakier as his mind nagged him that he only has so many breaths. Where was he? How did he get here? The walls looked odd - felt odd. There were dips and grooves on the sides. The one facing him wasn’t a wall - it’s a door. Except… Except this door doesn’t open. He knew what’s on the outside: chains._ The chains are too heavy. The door will collapse. The walls will sink in. _He had to get out of here… Out. Out. Away from these walls. Closer and closer and closer…_

Isaac woke to covers thrown off the bed and sweat causing his hair to cling to his skin. The heat or the fear or both had him panting and a chant of Scott’s name poured from his lips in wrecked whispers meant only for his ears. His hands tangled and ruffled his hair in a haphazard manner. 

Eventually his breathing returned to normal: _One. Two. Three._ He thought about releasing his fear with each breath. _One. Two. Three._ He gave a shaky laugh at the situation that sounded manic and tearful. One more deep breath and then he would get up to shower. The door would unlock and he could leave. He is not dreaming right now. He is awake.

Slowly he swung his feet over the side of the bed, steadying himself and keeping his posture erect, knuckles gripped the edge of the bed for support. _Let go, Isaac_ , reprimanded the voice. He forced another breath through his nostrils and started toward the door. The doorknob stared back at him with a leering sneer. _Don’t be a dumbass. Of course the door will open._ He wrapped a hand around the knob, curling each finger delicately around its contours like it was a rare jewel.

It opened. A small smile planted itself on his face and he felt like laughing again.


	2. Chapter 2

He was in a fog - voices were muffled and images non-descript. He had an old army bag, a dingy forest green duffel, on his shoulder. Someone packed it with his meager belongings: he doesn’t remember who. His legs moved mechanically out of the door like he was a wind-up doll with only a few good turns left to use. He couldn’t remember when that first tear spilled or if it was his imagination that it fell at all.

He thought dimly about where he was sleeping tonight. His old house? A shudder went through his body and he felt the tendrils of adrenaline reaching out to him, offering the chance to run from the venomous idea. Isaac forced the bile rising in his throat back down and quickly changed directions, away from his childhood home and toward a place he hadn’t been to in a few months.

***

The homeless shelter in Beacon Hills was a modest one. There were about 100 beds available and a few rooms built like mini apartments for those who had a group larger than four people. It was old and tattered, but the building met housing codes and it was clean. The line to get in starts at about 5pm; doors open approximately an hour later to let in the first 100 and few people, then turn away the other 50-some people telling them, “Yes, we are currently full. We apologize for the inconvenience. Please have these spare blankets.” Those people were left to find a bench or a 24-hour diner to loiter in.

It was already half past five when Isaac made it there. He mentally began counting the people in front of him. _1, 2, 3, 4…_

A little girl tugged on his pants leg around person 66.

“Mister. Excuse me, mister. Have you seen my bear?”  
_67\. 68. 69. 70…_  
“He’s about this tall and has glasses,” chirped the girl.  
_71\. 72. 73. 74…_  
“And he has on a fancy jacket too. His name is Mr. Paddington.”  
_75\. 76. 77. 78…_  
“Mister?”  
“No!” he huffed, then calmer, “Just shhh.”  
The girl haa-rumphed and her face contorted.  
_79… Or was it 78? Did that old man just cut in line?_

He ran a hand through his hair and tried to avoid getting frustrated. He’s probably person ninety or something. It’ll be fine.

The line began moving after about ten minutes - ten minutes of that little girl calling and whining about “Mr. Paddington”. _Why was she still here?_ Person after person disappeared behind the threshold into the cool, air-conditioned building. The lady who was passing out toiletries and bed assignments was quickly running out. When he reached her a look of recognition flashed across her face.

“Isaac?” She squinted at his features and took hold of his chin. She turned his face to see him from different angles. He gave a small smile that felt strained and tense. All he could think about was jerking his chin out of her touch. _One. Two. Three…_

“Yeah,” was all he offered by way of response.

The lady gave him a broad smile and there was a shine to her eyes like she was about to break down right there. She made little fussy sounds to calm herself down and told him that he has the last bed and lights off by nine along with the rest of the rules of the shelter.

“... No fraternizing with other guests. No sharing beds unless they’re kin. Wake up call will be at 8am. Any questions?”

Isaac was about to shake his head “no” when he remembered the little girl behind him.

“Can she share with me?” He felt that tug of adrenaline again.  
The lady faltered and had her eyebrows scrunched in a way a mom might have at the question.  
“She’s my cousin,” he supplied. It wasn’t that unbelievable, considering the little girl’s curly blond hair. She even had a similar looking nose if you looked hard enough.  
“I suppose… I didn’t know your father had any siblings, Isaac...”  
“Me either,” adding an open mouthed smile that said the information was crazy to him too.

She continued to search his eyes as if trying to detect cracks in his lie. She came up with nothing and motioned for both of them to come in, reminding him that she’s his responsibility for the night. He gave a loose nod and walked inside with the little girl clinging to his pants leg.

The inside of the building felt familiar as they entered the lobby area. Straight ahead would be the mess hall and its cafeteria style layout. He could smell whatever seasoning they were using for tonight's dinner mixed with the bleach of the tile floors. To the right and to the left were doors that lead to long rooms full of beds lining the walls. The door on his left was open and revealed the room to be full. Elderly men and women with children were huddled around their respective beds, speaking in hushed murmurs.

The doorway on his right showed a single, unoccupied bed on the far wall. The girl released his pants leg and grasped his hand instead as they walked in. _Keep your hand there. It’s okay. Just let her hold your hand. One. Two. Three._ Isaac felt the tension leave him and he made it to the end of the room without problem.

The bed was neatly made, a garish, gaudy granny quilt folded at the foot of the bed. The covers were a light gray, a shade darker than the walls. There was a little nightstand to the right of it. The drawer would probably hold a pocket bible, a notepad, and a pen. He set the toiletries on the wooden nightstand, taking the opportunity to reclaim his hand.

He turned to see the girl watching him intently.

“You’re not my cousin,” she informed him, nose turned up.  
“Did you want to sleep outside?”  
The girl uncrossed her arms and shook her head vigorously.  
“Then you’re my cousin.”

The girl pondered this idea for a moment, then nodded in agreement. She looked like she was about to ask a question when the sound of a microphone being tapped interrupted; a nasally voice told them it was dinner time and belongings were to be left on your beds. There was a pause before the voice added that there's a zero-tolerance policy on stealing and violence.

“C’mon, ‘cousin’.”  
“I have a name!” she told him huffily, small hand once again finding his own.  
“Yeah, what is it?”  
“Francine Evangeline Howard.”  
“Okay, Frannie.”  
“Francine! Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”  
“Isaac, Frannie.”  
“My name is Francine! Don’t be rude.”  
He guided her into the mess hall toward the start of the line where a few stacks of trays stood. Isaac looked down at the girl’s pouty face and shrugged at her before redirecting his focus to examining what was being served for dinner. It looked like chicken noodle soup was the entree.  
“You just look like a ‘Frannie’ to me.”  
“Okay, Isa.”  
He smirked at the little nickname. Whether he found it amusing or cute was undecided.

Once they got their trays, they found two open seats facing each other at the end of one of the long tables. Francine pushed her soup around in the bowl, looking unpleased with the menu options. He could see her getting ready to whine; he imagined that mousey voice explaining how her mom makes the best dinners for her. He tapped her leg with a foot and gave a pointed look at her bowl of soup. She crossed her arms in response and put on something of a scowl. Isaac glared back at the girl and they sat that way for a few minutes. Eventually Frannie started squirming and finally took a bite of the soup. She must have liked it because she ate a few more bites.

“Enjoying yourself?”

All he got in response was a pink tongue sticking out at him, followed by more spoonfuls of soup.

***

They continued back and forth with their banter when bussing their trays and returning to their assigned bed. That little hand always reaching for his whenever they needed to walk somewhere.

There wasn’t much available for entertainment. Frannie lamented the disappearance of Mr. Paddington again. It went on for about 10 minutes before Isaac pinched her to get her to shut up. The girl rubbed at the afflicted area and made her lower lip jut out.

“I’m bored! Isa, let’s play something.”  
“How about the quiet game?”  
“I _hate_ that game! Mommy always makes me play it, but I never win.”  
“What do you wanna do, Frannie?”  
“Ooh! Let’s play rock paper scissors, Isa. Please?”

Three lost games later, Isaac was saying that they should do best five out of seven, but the little girl refused to give in. She simply told him that he should try harder next time they play and that he should be happy with second place. 

“Whatever,” scoffing at her “comforting” words, “Why are you here anyway, Frannie?”  
“What are _you_ doing here, Isa?”  
“I asked you first.”  
“I asked you second.”  
“Frannie…”  
“Fine, fine!” her hands held up in a surrendering way, complete with dramatic sigh, “I ran away from home.” She slapped a hand over her eyes as if to avoid seeing his reaction or the beginnings of a lecture.  
“Yeah, me too,” he replied quietly.

They sat for a moment; Frannie stealing a peek at him, only to find his head being held in his hands. She moved her own hand away from her face, looking more intently at him like he was a broken, exhausted puppy.

“Isa?” she asked gently, taking his face in her little hands.  
_One. Two. Three…_ “I’m fine, Frannie. Wanna play another game?”

*** 

A bell rang to signal the lights would shut off in 5 minutes. Francine stared at Isaac as if asking if she could have the bed. He nodded and sat down on the floor for further emphasis. The girl smiled at him and gave him a peck on the top of his head before climbing into the creaky twin-sized bed. He threaded a hand in his hair and briefly wondered what the hell he was thinking when he labelled the girl as his cousin.

“Isa?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Could you tell me a bedtime story? Mr. Paddington usually tells me one to help me sleep.”

Isaac questioned if the teddy bear actually existed or if he was part of the girl’s imagination. He sighed and agreed, sounding like one of those dads in the sitcoms. Those ridiculous, trite terms of endearment popped into his head, then dissipated.

“A boy lived in a cottage in the woods -”  
“- Stories start with ‘Once upon a time’!”  
“Once upon a time,” he glanced up at her for approval and she gave a haughty nod, “a boy lived in a cottage in the woods. When the boy went to find berries, he ran into a big bad wolf. The wolf said hi and started talking about how hungry he was. The boy tried to offer the berries, but the wolf said he needs something better than the berries. And then the wolf ate the boy. The end.”

“You tell horrible stories, Isa.”  
“No I don’t. The boy got eaten.”  
“The boy should have fought the wolf and saved the princess!”  
“What princess?”  
“The one the wolf had hidden in a tree. Duh. Every story has a princess.”  
“Princesses should be quiet and sleep.”  
“Mommy always tells me that or else.”  
“Or else what?” he asked teasingly.  
“Nothing!” she hastily replied.  
“Frannie…”  
“Don’t worry, Isa,” was all she offered before barely whispering, “She’ll lock me in the closet.” He would have missed it had someone coughed.

A mixture of irritation, fear, and fury shot through Isaac, but he swallowed the cocktail of emotions down, burning his throat. Instead of trying to fumble through words of comfort: he held out a hand for her to hold. Frannie grasped and squeezed his hand like he could stop her from drowning. She let out a breath he didn’t know she’d been holding.

Isaac avoided analyzing the girl’s statement. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. She probably ran away to escape the woman like he did with his father. Like he’s doing now. Even with his father six feet underground in a heavy casket, he still felt afraid. Afraid that somehow it was a fluke that his father was reported dead and that if he went home, if only for a moment, he would see the bespectacled man sitting at the dinner table. He could practically hear him ask, “Why are you home late, Isaac?” He would stumble over some reason that fell flat. His father would only tell him that “You’re being disrespectful and you have to be disciplined.” The false apology and excuse of “hating to have to do this” echoed in his mind like chains clattering.

He quickly banished the scenario before anything could happen. Like him freaking out and partially shifting next to a girl who believes there’s always a princess to be saved that will be saved. _One. Two. Three…_

***

When the 8am wake up call rang, he felt groggy and his arm was sore. At some point his hand had been released and his arm fell in some awkward position on the floor. Frannie was still asleep in the bed, arm hanging over the edge of the bed and drooling a bit on the pillow. He felt a bittersweet smile creep onto his face before silently opening the nightstand. There was a notepad and pen. He uncapped the pen and sighed at what he was about to do.

_Frannie, talk to the lady that let us in. She can help.  
\- Isa ~~ac~~_

He couldn’t afford to have her around: he had enough issues on his own. He grabbed his army duffel and slipped out of the room of beds, briefly stopping at the bathroom to brush his teeth and fix his face. The smell of a hot breakfast being cooked made his stomach growl and he had to will the gnawing hunger away. He could find something later.

He was almost out of the shelter when he bumped into the lady from before. She flustered and apologized for his mistake before noticing his supposed cousin wasn’t with him.

“Get her away from her mom. I’ve got to go.”  
“Isaac, you can’t just leave that little girl here.”  
"I took care of her for the night. I’m done.”  
“Always running away from responsibility, Isaac.”

He shook his head and pushed past her and out the door. He couldn’t be around that little girl. _You mean, Frannie?_ He couldn’t afford to get attached. He wouldn't know the first thing about caring for her. He could barely care for himself. _And her mother? That's who knows how?_


	3. Chapter 3

He had walked aimlessly - after stopping at a McDonald’s - for a few hours, still wondering what would happen to Francine. Part of him wondered how she reacted to waking up alone. His heart ached when he thought about her calling out for him using "Isa" instead of "Isaac". God, he was a dumbass.

He looked around him, trying to figure out where exactly he was. Some residential area. Actually it felt like he's been here before. _Isn't this where Scott lives?_ He rummaged around for the prepaid phone he bought about a week ago. He flipped the phone open and saw it was just barely alive.

**> what's your address?**   
**> >819 sunset ave why**   
**> could I come over?**   
**> >now?**   
**> yea**   
**> >I guess sure**

15 minutes of trial-and-error guesswork later lead him to the address. He jogged up the stairs of the porch and rang the doorbell. _Shit. What do I say? Hey, Derek kicked me out, so I was hoping I could stay here?_ The door opened and Scott had his usual crooked smile plastered on his face, stepping aside to let him in.

Isaac shuffled inside and faced Scott, feeling out of place. The two stared for what felt like forever in an awkward stalemate before Scott burst out laughing.

"Dude what happened?"  
"What do you mean?" He felt his face shift to that open-mouthed, dumbstruck expression.  
"You're carrying that big duffel and you smell like you need a shower."  
"I -"  
"- And don't say you just finished working out. You're wearing skinny jeans."  
"Derek sort of kicked me out."  
"What?! When?"  
"Yesterday."  
"What happened? Wait where did you sleep last night?"  
"I dunno. I just remember leaving."  
"Where did you sleep last night?"  
Isaac averted his eyes and Scott had that mother hen look fixed on his face.  
"Isaac."  
"The homeless shelter."  
"The homeless shelter??" 

He flinched at the words being thrown back in his face. _It wasn't the worst place to sleep._ Scott just groaned at him, maybe the world, and told Isaac to follow him. They went upstairs, presumably to Scott's bedroom.

The room was more or less clean, no doubt a product of Scott's mom's nagging. Scott stopped in front of the bed and pointed at the door on the right side of the bedroom.

"You can shower there. I'll go get some towels."  
"..."  
"You're welcome."

Scott left out of the room, leaving Isaac to himself, to snoop around. He doesn't remember being in Scott's room before, but it looks... Normal. Like the bedroom of any stereotypical boy. There were probably skin mags underneath the bed. It was a stark contrast to the room Isaac used to live in. His father didn’t see the need for materialistic things. His bedroom consisted of a twin-sized bed, a desk, and a chair. There weren’t any decorations allowed; and books? “You can get those from the library.” Video games were out of the question since those would only distract from his studies.

It wasn’t until Isaac started working at the cemetery - and actually convinced his father to give him a paycheck by some miracle - that he was able to buy things for himself. It was simple stuff: sketchbooks and journals mostly. He remembered when he finally decided to get some special shading pencils from the local art store. He tucked them away in an old shoe box under his bed and had developed a good system about when he would use them, which was mostly at about 2am at night when his father was asleep. One night he fell asleep while drawing a still-life: an owl perched on the branch outside his window. When his father found him with them the next morning, he tossed them out, tossed everything out. “Gay” and “stupid” and “worthless” sliced at him while his father tore his room apart, searching for “contraband”. The last thing he remembers from that incident was needing to be “disciplined”.

Scott came back in, snapping Isaac out of his daze, and chucked two pink towels at him.

“Only thing that was clean.”  
“Does your mom use these?”  
“Uh… Yeah.”  
“... Or do you?”  
“Shut up and go shower.”

Isaac smirked and did as he was told, locking the bathroom door behind him. He actually did feel gross and his shoulder was aching from carrying that duffel for so long. The desire to have a long, hot shower screamed at him, but he settled on a short, cold one to avoid being any more trouble than he already was.

He patted himself down before exiting the shower and wrapped the towel around his waist. Hopefully he actually had a clean set of clothes. Derek might have just tossed whatever he found lying around into the duffel. He found a V-neck tee and some old jeans to wear. Maybe Scott could lend him some change for the laundrymat.

The dirty clothes were stuffed into the duffel and the towels left to dry. He rushed downstairs, vaguely noticing that he smelled like Scott. It was a good smell he decided.

***

“So you gonna tell me what happened?” asked Scott around a mouthful of food.  
“I told you.” Isaac kept his eyes trained on the leftover spaghetti in front of him. He added a shrug for emphasis.  
“Isaac…”  
“What do you want to know?”  
“Why did you go to a homeless shelter?”  
“I didn’t have anywhere else.”  
“Your house…?”  
“Where my father abused me? Yeah, why not?” The snarky comment sat oddly on his tongue and he felt a sense of uneasiness stir.  
“Right.”  
“...”  
Scott coughed and cleared his throat before tentatively asking, “Why the homeless shelter instead of me? My house that is?”

Isaac went quiet long enough to make Scott wonder if he heard him ask. It felt invasive to ask, especially when Isaac was obviously uncomfortable. He should have left it alone, but the idea of a homeless shelter gnawed at him. It’s not a simple find on a map or common knowledge. Scott had only heard of his mom mention the existence of one in Beacon Hills, but how to get there was a different concept entirely. Part of him thought that this was something he shouldn’t get into.

A long sigh broke the silence and Isaac told him, “I used to go to the homeless shelter sometimes. When I felt like leaving the house and not coming back. It was just habit to go there instead of to my house.”

“Isaac…”  
“Could we just drop it?”

Scott nodded and went back to eating the remainder of his spaghetti.

_One. Two. Three…_ He felt his breathing return to normal again and he was grateful Scott didn’t pursue the issue. Baring himself felt just as constricting as being there. 

***

They cleaned up wordlessly: Scott washed the dishes and Isaac dried. He mentally calculated how long it would take for him to get from here to the shelter. Maybe Frannie would be there.

“My mom won’t be back until morning, so we’ll probably order take out for dinner. You can sleep in my room or on the couch if you really want. Just don’t drool on the pillows.”  
“... Uh.”  
“Did you really think I was gonna let you spend another night in the homeless shelter?”  
“I shouldn’t.”  
“It’s not debatable, Isaac. Besides I’m your alpha.”  
“I - Thanks.”

Scott just smiled and shook his head, lightly shoving the blond boy. Isaac gave a nervous laugh and Scott joined in soon after. It was one of those laughs where nothing was funny in the slightest, but continued nevertheless. The two were holding their stomachs after a few minutes, each repeating back phrases in exaggerated impressions. The laughter died down for a moment and then Isaac said “I’m your alpha” and they started right back up.

Once they calmed down again - a short giggle appearing at random - Scott suggested they play Grand Theft Auto. When Isaac said he’s never played, Scott’s eyes went wide and he started explaining the game in detail, frequently mentioning how he _has_ to play.

***

A few hours of reckless video game driving later - strangely addicting - and their thumbs were sore, stomachs growling. Scott looked to Isaac for opinions on the game and he responded with a rare grin. Scott grinned back and announced that they needed food. They went with pizza, unable to agree on anything else, and decided pepperoni was the safest. Scott pulled out his cellphone and placed their order; words muddled together as he explained the address and figured out the total.

It felt odd, just hanging out with Scott. There was no impending doom. No supernatural task to attend to. He felt normal like any other high school boy. It was that sense of normalcy - video games, ordering pizza, and summer laziness - that unnerved him as if something was about to happen, had to happen. He didn’t want to feel like this, but he did. He wasn’t sure how to operate and he found himself quiet. Hell he barely said anything since he got here. A pervading sense of vulnerability swept over him. _One. Two. Three…_

“Dude, you okay?” Scott was looking at him now, specifically his eyes. They must have changed colors.  
“Yeah, sorry. Spaced out for a moment.”  
“You didn’t ‘space out’. Your eyes were gold, Isaac.”  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
“Isaac, do you trust me?”  
“I - What?”  
“Do you trust me?”  
“I - I guess? Yes.”  
“Then why do you keep shutting me out? You’ve been acting weird all day.”  
“It’s part of the claustrophobia.” _It’s not claustrophobia; it’s something else. Some demon of its own making._

Scott looked around the room as if measuring its size. Isaac would have laughed if he didn’t feel like throwing up. _One. Two. Three…_

“No, it’s a different type. The room is fine.”  
“What’s wrong?”  
“It’s… This… I don’t know how to explain it.”  
“Could you try? I want to understand.”  
“That. Not you, but me. I feel like I’m on display.”  
“...”

_Don’t think. It’s okay. It’s okay._

“So you feel trapped? Like you can’t escape the spotlight or something,” said Scott slowly, gently.

Isaac could’ve cried. He could’ve leapt with joy as if Scott pieced together his charades clue. Instead he looked off in the distance and nodded. He was embarrassed. Why was he embarrassed? It was just Scott. Is it better to be embarrassed than afraid? Are the two the same?

“Isaac, it’s cool. I get it.”

At that he snapped his attention back to Scott, searching his eyes. He thought back to his characterization of Scott’s voice and it being a drug. It was simpler than that though. It was Scott calling his name. In that he felt a surge of something indescribably good that went from the base of his spine to his neck. But nothing changed.

“Isaac?” Scott touched his knee as a reassuring gesture.

The action was a surprise, but he didn’t feel like flinching. He wanted to get closer. Why did he want to get closer?

The doorbell rang and the two jumped, startled by the intrusion. Scott flashed him another dumb smile and rubbed the back of his neck; his actions practically screamed, “Boy that was weird”. He practically hopped off the couch and answered the door. A tired looking man held out the pizza for inspection along with a receipt to sign. Scott busied himself with the money and receipt signing. The man sighed as Scott fumbled to hand back the items in exchange for the aromatic pizza box. He probably did that apologetic smile of his before telling the man “Have a good night”.

Scott settled back on the couch, pizza placed on the coffee table in front of them. Isaac made some dumb joke about the pizza man and took a slice, desperately trying to brush off whatever he felt a moment ago. Scott snickered in response and stuffed a slice in his mouth, then reaching for the remote so that they could channel surf.

They ended up watching Spongebob Squarepants, one of the few shows Isaac remembers from when he was a boy, and made a game of finding the dirty jokes they wouldn’t have noticed as a kid. Somehow he felt more comfortable in this situation: in being able to hide behind jokes and smirks. He was safe from whatever thoughts that swam in the back of his mind. He could play the role of normal.


	4. Chapter 4

Scott yawned at one of his jokes, stretching his muscles. Somehow his jaw looked more crooked that way.

“Tired, old man?”  
“Shut up,” he replied around another yawn, “I’ve been up since 5am, of course I’m tired.”  
“5am doing what?”  
“Deaton wanted me to come in early today since he had something to take care of. Anyways, I’m gonna change. You coming?”

Isaac shrugged and followed Scott up the stairs who was already in the process of removing his shirt. He tossed it in some corner of the room and rummaged through his dresser. Isaac mirrored his actions: removing his own shirt and looking through his duffel for soft bottoms. He found a pair of flannel pajama bottoms - a miracle by his standards - that were clean.

He absentmindedly asked Scott if he could use his washer, not sure if he could manage a third change of clothes without recycling something. Scott grunted back his affirmation and sounded like he was still searching. Back turned, he shed his own pants and quickly slipped into his own pants.

Scott chose that transitory moment to turn around because that was just Isaac’s sort of luck. He snickered at the display and Isaac pulled up his bottoms.

“Forget something?” teased Scott.  
“Ha. Ha,” was the most articulate reply he could come up with.

The alpha shrugged at him, grinning - didn’t his face ever hurt - and changing into his own pajama bottoms.

“Superman boxers?”  
“Better than none. And they’re boxer briefs, bro. Get it right.”  
“How would I know?”  
“Touche. Which side of the bed do you want, Commando?”  
“The couch side?”  
“Okay, but it gets pretty cold down there. Wouldn’t want you to lose anything.”  
“I’ll be fine even without Superman hugging my balls.”  
“You can take his job.”  
“I’m good, thanks.”

Scott laughed and told him there should be a blanket in the living room on a chair. Isaac left the room smiling and shaking his head.

As predicted there was a blanket for him to sleep under. It looked handmade, crafted out of some sort of yarn. The crisp air of room made him regret skipping a shirt and he found himself curling up under the thick blanket. He turned off the solitary light source, a lamp, and spent the next few minutes shifting in an attempt to get comfortable. He felt like a dog circling his bed before settling.

A clock in the background made faint ticking sounds and he tried to focus on that. He wasn’t actually tired - it was only 11pm - and he half wished they could have stayed up a bit longer. The foreign situation made him think of the shelter again. Sleeping on the floor was terrible, but he got through it with the kitten snores Frannie had made. It was worth the back-ache. Maybe he never really slept last night or maybe he was too focused on Frannie’s snoring, but he didn’t have a nightmare. He prayed that tonight would be a repeat. He hated waking up like that, feeling powerless and at the mercy of his ever-present fear. He couldn’t afford to do that tonight, not at Scott’s house.

Scott… What was that earlier? A ghost feeling of Scott’s hand on his knee made him shiver. Shiver, not flinch. Why didn’t he flinch? Being touched, by anyone, has made him recoil for as long as he could remember. The idea that he was okay with being touched, wanted to be touched by Scott baffled him. It was comforting and… a little more than that. He didn’t know, or rather wouldn’t admit, how it felt. It was too small of a thing. It could have been a fluke. _He needs to touch you differently? Needs to touch you again?_ That’s not what he wanted. _Isn’t it? Didn’t it feel good?_ It was nothing. It doesn’t matter.

His mind was unappeasable and warring thoughts shouted back at each other. He felt like shutting it all out. It felt noisy in the quiet room. He tried refocusing on the tick-tock of the clock. Count the ticks, exhale on the tocks. _One. Two. Three…_

***

_His eyes were met with darkness that morphed into low shadows. The familiar scratch-ridden door came into focus. He knew where he was, where he always was. He would stay calm this time. He’s fine. It’s fine._ One. Two. Three… _His breaths shook as if carrying their own fear. Control and rationale slipped from his fingers like water. He couldn’t hold on. He felt his claws reach out, ready to carve a way out. He’s got to get out. He can’t stay. Not with the walls hugged against his sides, touching him in the worst way possible. The freezer was shrinking. He wasn’t going to get out. A growl mixed with a scream ripped from his throat and the walls only got closer. They were molding to his body. He couldn’t move his hands any more. He was going to die._ One. Two. _He couldn’t breath. His lungs felt sandwiched. He couldn’t breath. Closer and closer and tighter and tighter…_

Isaac woke up on the floor, blanket somewhere underneath him. He was curled up and he couldn’t stop his breathing from rabbiting. Why couldn’t he slow his breathing? What was that sound? Him. It was him. Choked off sobs muddled his attempts at normal breathing. He dimly remembered that he was in Scott’s house, but all he could think about was the nightmare.

He wanted to touch the air around him. To jolt himself out of this state. To lock up the fear. But he couldn’t bear the thought of moving. He felt like disappearing. Why? Why? Why did he have to have this fear that consumed him, that made him a slave, that made him too afraid to even be touched?

There was a click of a door opening upstairs, followed by soft footsteps padding down the wooden steps. The footsteps grew closer and Scott’s figure came into view.

“Isaac?” His voice was laced with concern and worry. It had a strange sound mixed with the husk of sleep. Scott sat down next to him and touched his shoulder. It felt like he’d been shocked.

Isaac opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He tried to say something again and a broken sob wrenched itself from him. He buried his face, desperately trying to sink into the floor. Anything. Anything except this inescapable state he was stuck in.

Scott pulled him into a hug. His breathing stilled and every limb of his body tensed. Each place that Scott touched him set his skin alight and chilled him. He focused on trying to breathe again, but thoughts of the freezer being molded to his body came back to him.

“Scott.” It was a wrecked and jagged word that pierced the air.

Understanding hit him and he released Isaac. He heard a soft breath from the boy and his heartbeat was starting to calm down. 

“Isaac, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking -”  
“- It’s fine.”  
“What do you need?”

What did he need? _To wrap yourself around Scott._ He needed Scott close. If Scott was here, he’d be okay. _So you can wait for him to touch you again?_ He didn’t want Scott to touch him. _You liked it._

“I - I need to sleep.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yeah, but would you stay with me?” He half-whispered the request despite knowing he’d be heard either way.  
“Okay,” yawned back Scott, “but not down here. I hate sleeping on the couch.”

A weight lifted and he exhaled slowly, nodding at the condition. Scott stood up and offered a hand to help Isaac up. He took it hesitantly and stood. Scott let go and started back toward the stairs. He felt like he might sleep as he followed Scott back to his bedroom. He even stifled a yawn. Scott stumbled back into bed and under the large comforter.

“Isaac, c’mon,” he mumbled into the pillow.

The blond gingerly got into the other side of the bed. The sheets smelled sunbaked and like the body wash Scott uses, coupled with the fainter smell of sweat and laundry detergent. The comforter was warm and he was able to stretch out his sore muscles. Exhaustion washed over him and he fell back asleep.

***

Isaac woke up to the feel of soft hairs brushing against his lips, tickling where they touched. His drowsy mind sifted through the rest of the sensory data rolling in: cold toes, warm thighs, numb arm. The word “hair” kept repeating in his mind like an alarm clock beeping its want of attention.

“Hair…” he mouthed. _Scott’s hair. He was in Scott’s bed. Against Scott. Pressed against Scott._ He needs to move. All he needs to do is roll over. _Roll over, Isaac._  
“Isaac?” mumbles Scott.  
_Shit._ He shifted away, arms wriggling out and away from the brunette. He’s got his leg partially disentangled from between the alpha’s - _He had a leg between Scott’s. A leg._ \- before Scott captured it with his.  
“Stay. Feels good,” he says lethargically.  
He stops moving and tries not to think about the places between them that are touching. _One. Two. Three…_ He finds himself relaxing, drowsiness lulling him back into the comfort of the bed, warmth of his alpha.

***

It’s almost noon before they get out of bed: Scott slept like a log and Isaac in fits and bursts. He’d find the sweet taste of comfort before Scott moved in his sleep, inevitably closer to him, and then he’d restart the process of swallowing down that ball of anxiety and thrill.

When Scott finally rubbed away the remnants of sleep he realized their newest position: one leg thrown over Isaac’s hip and the other wedged between the blond’s thighs; chest kissing back. He didn’t say much while removing the offending body parts except a mumbled “Sorry”. Isaac nodded at the word, keeping out of his mind.

“You want first shower?” offered Scott.  
“Yeah, thanks.”

The two awkwardly shifted away from each other: Scott to make the bed and Isaac to escape to the bathroom. There he could think, mull things over. Maybe the cold water would jab some sense into him.

He stripped down and tried to adapt to the unforgiving water droplets that forced goosebumps to pop up. What was that? _Something new._ Hormones. They were teenagers and werewolves. It would happen anyway. _But did you like it?_ It didn’t matter if he liked it - he didn’t you did; they were friends. _Oh, look who’s worried with labels._ They were friends. _Friends that spoon?_ Friends can spoon. Right? _Sure they can._

He sighed and moved on to shampooing his hair. The water was starting to feel better, more needed than he had thought. _Needed for what? To keep your ”hormones” in check?_ He brushed off the thought, focusing on the task of lathering and rinsing. _What are you afraid to admit, Isaac?_ Nothing, he had nothing to admit. Nothing changed. _You can’t believe that. Scott’s the first person to touch you in years without causing you to cringe._ That doesn’t matter. _Doesn’t it? Who else would you let spoon you?_ He was tired. Scott was warm. It - it… He didn’t know why it was okay. It just was. Is.

He toweled off, brushed teeth, and all other mundanities before realizing that he didn’t have anything clean to wear. _Maybe Scott will let you wear some of his clothes._ He tasted the thought, wondered what it would feel like to wear someone else’s clothes. It was either that or put on something dirty.

In the end he settled on recycling whatever smelled cleanest. Unfortunately that lasted all of two minutes before Scott sniffed him, or rather the air around him, and decided he’d be better off wearing some of his clothes.

“Dude, I’m like 4 inches taller than you.”  
“Whatever, just take the clothes.”

He shrugged and turned around to change. The pants worked better if he rolled up the cuffs.

“How do I look?”  
“Like a hipster.”  
“Nah, I don’t have the glasses for it.”  
“Maybe we can steal some 3-D glasses for you at the movies.”  
“You asking?”  
“Are you offering?”

He was stammering, trying to figure out another witty quip. _Nervous, much?_ He was making that dumbfounded face again, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Scott just smiled that devilish smile at him and shook his head. He exited the room and Isaac followed, still figuring out what happened. Wasn’t he always trying to figure that out?

***

Scott’s mom - “Call me, Melissa,” she told him - made pancakes for breakfast. There was a tired look in her eye as she ate with them, asking them about school and how “the pack” was - she gave a chuckle of disbelief at the use of the term. Scott took over most of the conversation, effectively saving Isaac from any sort of social interaction. He didn’t know if he could manage small talk at the moment, not with the awkwardness of intruding on what would be a mother-son interaction.

Melissa went upstairs, asking that they “please, please put the dishes away”. Scott said something of affirmation, promising that they’ll keep quiet as she slept. He gestured toward the sink and Isaac filled it with soapy water while Scott gathered.

“So, sorry about the whole, you know, uh, cuddling thing.” muttered Scott.  
“It happens.” _Does it?_  
“Yeah, cool.” Water dripped and dropped and pittered and pattered. The dishes moved on their own accord, wanting nothing to do with the exchange between the boys.  
“So the cuddling. It didn’t, like, bother you or something?”  
“It will if you keep asking about it.”  
“Right.”

Scott looked like he wanted to say more, ask more, but thought better of it. He felt thankful for the reprieve. Analyzing why Scott decided to put them together like puzzle pieces wasn’t a top priority. He barely felt like figuring out why he seemed to be okay with it on some level.


	5. Chapter 5

_There wasn’t enough light to display his surroundings. He heard leaves crunch beneath his feet against what must have been gravel. A low hum whispered at his ear. The area grew brighter with two circles of light rippling against the ground. He was on the side of the road. The car’s engine grew louder as it neared, then murmured to a quiet stop. He didn’t know why the car stopped for him, but his feet turned toward the vehicle regardless. The door unlocked and he hopped inside, expecting… Expecting someone. The driver was non-descript, enshrouded in darkness. Male was the best guess he had. The car came back to life and drove along the road. The silence was deafening. He wanted to turn on the radio, but couldn’t. His hand simply wouldn’t obey. “Having trouble?” the driver asked. It had a terrible voice, peppered with static and distorted, that would have made him tremble. But he can’t move anything. He can’t even blink. His eyes began to sting with dryness._ Where are we going? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I feel anything? _“Dead people don’t move, Isaac.” The car took a sharp turn into what looked to be a junkyard._ What are we doing here? Why did he call me dead? I’m alive. I was alive when I got into the car. I couldn’t do that if I was dead. Right? _“You must be dead, Isaac. You can’t move and you don’t feel anything do you?” The car rolled onto a metal platform._ This isn’t… No, it can’t be. _“Good thing Ernie left the gate open to this impound lot, eh? Got the machine ready to go too. Should start any minute now.” A hideous whirring sound shattered the night followed by a cantankerous rumbling of metal. A metal plate he hadn’t noticed before began its descent. Soon the roof of the car began to groan like a dying animal. He still couldn’t move. He couldn’t scream for help as the roof began caressing his head._

When he woke up he was afraid that he was still paralyzed. His limbs felt heavy and light. He heard the shortened exhales jump from his chest. If he could breathe he could move. Slowly his body parts inched back to his control. _Walk._ His feet and legs remembered each other and obeyed the command. He felt like a worn computer starting up, waiting for each program to load and be ready for use. It wasn’t until he made it to the door that he realized the balmy sweat clinging to his skin.

He nearly opened it before remembering the only bathroom available to him was in Scott’s room. His current state rid him of any stealth he might have. Scott was probably a light sleeper anyways; he didn’t want to wake him. The thought of going back to sleep was odious, menacing. The clock on the bedside table read 4:43AM. How the hell was he supposed to pass six hours if he wasn’t sleeping?

***

The minutes sped by as a snail would through molasses. Sitting in darkness, trying to busy himself with “99 bottles of pop”, preyed on his state. It wasn’t a fear of the darkness as much it was a breeding ground for thoughts back to the nightmare. After reaching the 53rd bottle of pop on the wall, he decided to creep downstairs to the living room. At least the rising sun could offer him some peace. The clock read 5:34AM. _Great._

He rearranged couch cushions. Frickin’ couch cushions. He couldn’t keep still no matter how hard he tried, so constantly fluffing and shuffling cushions was all he could do. And when they looked fluffed enough he’d do it again. And again. And again. The simple task was consuming enough that he didn’t register the sound of footsteps. For someone with supernatural hearing he could stand to pay better attention.

“Isaac?”

The sound coaxed him out of his frenzied task. What was it about the way he said it? There was no special syllable or magic modulator to make it have that effect. It couldn’t have been the effect of an alpha. No, Derek had called his name at least a handful of times. Enough for him to have noticed something like that. It was silly. It was stupid. He knew what it was. It was Scott. What else could it be? But for a weight like that to be carried in _his_ name. As if that name were something that needed to be protected. As if whoever held that name needed to be protected. As if _he_ needed to be protected. But how idiotic, how foolish a thing for him to consider.

“Isaac…”  
“Yes?”  
“You spaced out for a minute there. What happened? Why are you down here?”  
“Can’t I just be down here?” Does something have to be wrong?  
“Did you get any sleep?”  
“Yes.” The word screamed “I’m lying!” even in his mind.

They stood silent for a moment. Isaac surveying the rug beneath his feet; Scott surveying Isaac with that infernal mother hen look. The clock tick-tocked in a disparaging tone. _Why draw it out? You could just tell him the truth. He’s going to pull it out of you eventually._ There was a sick pleasure in keeping the attention on himself. It was a monstrous feeling that hungered for the attention of someone who gave a damn, starved by years of having to hide from the attention of someone who called him damned.

“Isaac, you don’t have to tell me what happened.”  
“...”  
“But I want to help.”  
A nod.  
“And I can’t do that if you shut me out.”  
He gave a heavy sigh, hoping that would somehow explain why he did and didn’t want to explain.

When he spoke again he finally looked Scott in the eye. He fumbled through the gist of why he was down there, how he couldn’t sleep, how he had a nightmare. Somehow it snowballed into detailing the nightmare and how he thought the driver might have been his father and him and how terrifying it felt to be trapped in his own body and in the rapidly shrinking car. Through it all Scott just nodded and reassured him and listened. He listened like Isaac may have been the last thing he heard and he needed to physically hold and quell each word of fear and anxiety. Tears kissed his cheeks when… When… He doesn’t know when. The tears heal him and expose him, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. He’s safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is not the end. Sorry not much happened. But I promise more developments will occur in the aftermath of this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: internalized homophobia, use of homophobic expletives.

He’s been here before. He’s done this before. He knows where he is, he does, he just needs his brain to wake up. _Soft. Pillow. Sun. Detergent. Something… Something… Scott._

“You okay?” The question mocked him and the words fussed over him. Scott appeared in the doorway, toothbrush happily encased in his mouth. How did he hear him wake up? Was he waiting for him to wake up?

His face must have looked more aggressive than confused because Scott was apologizing and talking about how he heard him moan, so he thought he was in pain and he knows that’s dumb, but. _Moan? What mo- Oh. God I’m fucked up. Since when do I moan at the smell of Scott?_

“Just trying to wake up my arm. Don’t worry about it.”  
“...”  
_Does my lying suck that much?_ “What am I doing here?”

Scott’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He stared for a moment, then disappeared back into the bathroom. _What did I do? Shit, shit. I fucked up._ He grasped at wisps of memories. Scott found him downstairs. He cried. Jesus he cried like a baby. What happened after that? _You sound like a girl who woke up from a drunken one night stand, Isaac._ No, that’s ridiculous. He can’t stand to be touched. _Unless it’s Scott McCall._ That was a fluke. _Still holding on to that one?_ He did not touch Scott. _But you want to?_

“Okay, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to do it. It happened before I really knew what was going on.”  
“... Before what happened?” _Does he ever stop apologizing?_  
“You really don’t remember?” The look of a kicked puppy etched itself on Scott’s face.  
Isaac shook his head, desperate to know whatever _it_ was.  
Scott sat on the empty side of the bed, sighing like a person would before saying their favorite nana died. “You started crying when -”  
“- I remember that.”  
“Yeah, I. Well I wanted to comfort you, so I -”  
“- What did you do?”  
“I hugged you.”

This is the part where a celebrity douche bag busts through the door and tells him he’s been “punk’d”. The cameras get pointed out to him. Scott starts laughing. He gets to wear the tired mom expression coupled with an appropriate “What the fuck?” Instead of any of that coming to fruition, he’s stuck in this increasingly bizarre situation. What did Scott think his reaction would be? Outrage? Disgust? All-encompassing terror?

“What?”  
“You know, hug.”  
“Hug,” he repeated back. _Was this really happening?_ In a matter of seconds he would wake up and have a hilarious dream to tell. _A dream rather than a nightmare?_  
“I’m -”  
“Don’t say you’re sorry again. Just… Don’t.”  
“Isaac, it was a mistake!” _Has the word “mistake” always been that sharp?_  
“I’m going to shower.” He announced it like an insult.

Scott bit off whatever worry-filled, guilt-ridden statement he was going to say. Isaac went to the bathroom, closing the door softly, angered that he didn’t have the heart or upbringing to slam it. He saw his duffle tucked in the corner, the bag a shell of itself. Only his toiletries were stuffed inside. Where were his clothes? He gave a cursory sweep of the bathroom before seeing a stack of folded clothes. He grabbed a shirt and inhaled: detergent.

Damn Scott McCall. Damn his caring. Damn his concern. Damn his goddamn hugs and listening skills. Damn his bed. His enumeration of the damned was silenced by the pitter-patter of the water. The simple sound reprimanded him. _How is it that Scott hugged me, not just touched but_ hugged _, and I don’t remember? What was it that made him accept_ and _be receptive? I couldn’t have tensed up. If I did, then he would have stopped and remembered._ He tried wash away the haze that invaded his memories, scrubbed meticulously as if forcing the events back into his head. He tried to imagine it, imagine how he’d respond to it. 

Scent was the first thing that popped up: that mixture of cedar, cinnamon, sweat, and soap. Thoughts of the spooning incident pressed to the forefront of his mind and joined the dance spawned by his imagination, reminding him of how Scott felt against him. It was natural and unnatural and right and wrong. He didn’t want that feeling, but he does. Did. Must have. Why else would he accept a hug as if he were a functional person? He toweled off, ignoring the growing interest his groin had taken at the memory of Scott’s invasive cuddling.

His father’s words whipped him for the impure reaction. _Don’t sully the Lahey name with faggot behavior, Isaac. What are you going to do, you fucking queer? Put on a dress and put on lipstick? Goddamn, you can’t do a damn thing right can you? Worthless piece of shit and now you wanna go around sucking dick. You’re just a faggot whore. Say it, Isaac. That’s right, just a faggot whore. I’d beat your ass if I could. Beat all them damned perverted fairy thoughts right out of your disgusting mind. Maybe I’ll lock you up instead. Make sure no one sees what a weeping pussy my son is for dick._

A knock at the door cut off the tirade. He threw on whatever clothes he touched first, thankful they were his own.

“Scott?”  
“Could I come in?”  
“...” _Maybe you should come out, Isaac._ “Yeah.”

The lock clicked and the knob slowly turned. Which way do the hinges swing again? Inward, the door swings inward. He needs to step back or else the door will hit him. Bare feet gave farewell and gave salutation the cold, off-cream colored tile. A step back and an inch closer. Stopping, stopping three tiles back and door reunited with doorstop. Stepping, stepping four tiles forward and two tiles separated two wolves.

“Are you -”  
“- Okay?”  
“Yes.”  
“No.”  
“...”  
“...”  
“Is -”  
“Don’t.”  
“Don’t what?”  
“Don’t say my name like that.”  
“Like wh -”  
“Like you need to protect me. Like you care.”  
“I do care. I want to protect you.”

The floor stares up uncomprehending and uncaring. The walls are similarly inclined. No tutting of rhyming sounds to assuage the quiet. Only emotions yelling their plea to not be noiseless.

“Why?” _What answer do I want?_  
“Why would you ask that?”  
“Why won’t you answer it?”  
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”  
“Of course not.” _Was that Isaac Lahey or Mr. Lahey?_  
“Is it so hard to believe that someone cares about what happens to you? That I want you safe? I want to protect you from everything that goes bump in the night. I want to be there when you need first aid or have a nightmare or, or, if you get a paper cut!”  
“Because you’re my alpha? Because goody two-shoes Scott McCall has a bleeding heart for anything that breathes air?”  
“Because you’re mi - my friend.”

_You didn’t think he’d spill his heart in some unfounded confession, did you? Scotty here is a good little straight boy. He gets off to sticking his prick in some girl’s cunt. Damn saint for even considering a deviant like you a friend._

“You’re my friend too, Scott.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sexual content and language.

Isaac hadn't slept in three days. Bits of that night were resurfacing. The feel of an embrace. The ghost of warm breath on his neck. The whispered words of "It's okay" and "I've got you". The snapshots would be examined and analyzed, inspected and savored. He'd lock them up for safekeeping. Only after a wave of contentment settled over him would the shards of words from his father cut and pierce. _How do you know what you're "remembering" is real? How do you know this isn't part of some sick fantasy?_ He couldn't explain how, but he knew what he was remembering was real. _Ask Scott then._ How was he going to explain what he was remembering? _"Hey, Scott I've got memories of you hugging me and telling me things that make my heart swell."_ Not his best plan.

If anything he was avoiding Scott aside from superficial interactions. Maybe Scott picked up on it; he probably did. The last thing he needed was to throw up a hodgepodge of feelings he barely understood and didn’t want to understand. He had managed to keep up the ruse of sleeping and functioning, but only through the aid of supernatural healing. Even that was fading with the exhaustion though. But if he went to sleep, wouldn’t he face yet another nightmare? And wouldn’t that lead him directly to Scott and therefore the deep, meaningful discussion he wanted to avoid? _Isn’t that what you want? To end up in Scott’s bed again and again?_ The thought excited and repulsed him.

He was becoming increasingly sensitive to all things Scott: smell, voice, hair, personality, anything. Smell especially set him off. A moan at waking up to the smell of his alpha was a drop in the ocean.

***

Tonight he borrowed one of Scott’s pajama bottoms to bed - all of his stuck in the wash - and he shouldn’t have been able to smell the faint sweat mixed in with the detergent. He shouldn’t have felt turned on by the idea of where that sweat came from. He shouldn’t have; but he did. He couldn’t help the way the flannel teased his shaft until it was less of an accidental shift and more of a helpless rutting into the mattress with the scratchy flannel teasing the head of his dick. He didn’t think about anything when he came in a matter of seconds, soaking the front of the bottoms. That was the moment where he was supposed to reprimand himself and make ruthless remarks about how disgusting he was and how utterly wrong it was to masturbate to Scott.

Instead he inhaled the new smell of his cum mixed with his and Scott’s sweat. The only thing he could feel was blood rushing south, filling his cock again. He peeled off the bottoms and pressed the groin of them to his nose, biting on one of the legs to keep quiet as he jerked himself off. He thought about how Scott’s hand would feel. Where would he twist in his stroke? Would he thumb at his head? Would he squeeze just a little bit harder than necessary? He ran the flat of his hand against the underside, just to slow down a little, just to feel his cock twitch right before he gripped it again. It was the sound of his name falling from Scott’s lips that pushed him over the edge again.

When he was naked and filthy he felt that familiar shame coat his skin. Words that should have been buried with his father scolded and degraded him. His father-given nickname echoed in the room, “faggot whore”. Each syllable was an insult and the phrase seemed as vile as he felt. A nightmare-filled sleep would be preferable.

Minutes or hours or seconds later he got up from the bed. He made his way downstairs quietly to hurriedly wash the incriminating, damning bottoms. The dryer rumbled with his own clothes and the washer on its quickest, hottest setting. Every so often he’d check the dryer to see if a pair of bottoms were dry yet, skin feeling colder and tighter than before. If he didn’t think about it, then he could act like it didn’t happen. He wouldn’t think about the safety he felt with Scott. He wouldn’t think about the closeness he started to crave. He wouldn’t think about the happiness that Scott gives him. Because he shouldn’t be thinking about those things.

***

The morning rolled around in a tired crawl. He slipped into the pajama bottoms again, thankful that they only smelled of him and detergent. The clock beat out a monotonous and lively tune as he refolded his own clothes on the living room couch. The front door clicked open and Ms. - Melissa appeared in the doorway. She didn’t notice him until her keys were put away and her cardigan hung up.

“Isaac?”  
He turned his head in response, giving a polite “Good morning”.  
“It’s half past five, Isaac.”  
“Oh, I didn’t notice.”  
“Why are you up?” She walked over to where he was and sat down to face him. She leaned in and asked, cutting her voice to a whisper, “Was it another nightmare? Scott told me you had one or two before.”  
“No. I mean, yes. It was a small one.”  
Her eyes narrowed at the obvious fib. “Toss me a shirt. I’ll help you fold.”

He picked up the closest shirt and flung it across the air. The shirt landed to the far left of where Melissa was sitting. He scrutinized the wayward shirt, then looked back up. The only commentary was an arched eyebrow at the terrible throw. He went to pick it up and properly hand the shirt to her, bumping into the coffee table on his way back.

“Isaac, when was the last time you slept?”  
“Last night.”  
“Isaac.”  
“Last night of the day before yesterday.”  
“3 nights? What’s going on with you?”  
“It’s… I mean. I don’t -”  
“- Isaac? Mom? What’re you guys talkin’ about?” interrupted Scott, lumbering down the steps.  
“Isaac was here when I walked in.”  
“Bro, why are you up?”  
“Laundry.”

Melissa didn’t bother to contradict him, simply excusing herself to her own bedroom and leaving a folded shirt behind. Scott waved good bye to his mom and plopped down in the seat next to Isaac.

“I’ll help,” he stated around a half-stifled yawn.

Isaac just nodded, silently folding the clothes. The air felt thick and heavy, each breath a chore.

“Why are you? Up, I mean.”  
“Heard something on the way to the bathroom.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah.”

Folding cloth over cloth. Clothes of infinite and finite source. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Inhale and exhale. Did time slow down to be a spectator?

“Isaac?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”  
“What?”  
“You’ve got dark circles and you just folded that shirt twice.”  
“Oh,” was all he offered, looking dumbly at the shirt.

“Can you?”  
“Can I what?”  
“Sleep?”  
_Yes_. “No.”  
“Why?”  
_Because I’m tired of the nightmares. Because I don’t want, need, to be pet up._ “Dunno.”  
“You’re lying.”  
“Yes.”  
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”  
“No.”

_And once again the magical Scott McCall traps me in this wordplay. On second thought creating a problem with easily observed signs wasn’t the best move._

“Isaac,” starts Scott.  
“Scott.”  
“You can tell me anything. Whatever’s bothering you, we can face it together. You don’t have to do it alone.”  
_Aren’t I always alone?_ “Sure.”  
“I’m serious, Isaac.”  
_Isaac, Isaac, Isaac._ “I don’t want nightmares, okay?”  
“Is that the only thing?”

_Of course it isn’t. The fact that nightmares land me right next to you doesn’t help. Not when the smell of you can make me cum. Twice._ Scott rested a hand on his knee as if to further emphasize his never-ending concern. He could feel the heat radiating from the palm of his hand, warming him. If they were both wolves, why did Scott always feel so much warmer?

“Isaac?”

Scott’s thumb started to rub him idly and that shouldn’t have an effect on him. He took a breath and opened his eyes - _They had closed?_ \- to look at the alpha. It would be so simple to just lean in a little closer, close his eyes a little longer, press his lips against Scott’s. _Poor Isaac, doomed to lust after the wrong sex. What would your mother think of her sweet boy turning into some kind of deviant? What a worthless son to raise._

“I - I just. Don’t. Want. The nightmares,” he panted out.  
“You’re sure?” prodded Scott.

The offending hand had slowly crept higher up his thigh. When he opened his eyes again, Scott was slightly closer: not quite touching, but almost. Isaac couldn’t help the quick glance at his lips.

“I guess I don’t want to keep… Keep running to you.”  
“I don’t mind…”  
“I. Scott. Your, uh -”  
“- My what?”  
“Hand.”  
“What about it?”  
“Thigh.”  
“Do you want me to stop?”  
“No.”

The clock went tock, tick as Scott closed the distance between them. It was seconds and hours dancing together in a confusing mix of time. If he had ever thought of what it would be like to kiss someone, it was a child’s dream compared to the way Scott’s mouth felt on his. It was like fitting two lost puzzle pieces together, pulling him further and further down the rabbit hole.

Then it ended as soon as it started. The clock went tick, tock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew a bit of inspiration from The Way He Looks and Free Fall for this chapter. (They're on Netflix!) And I promise this isn't the end.


	8. Chapter 8

“Pinch me,” Isaac breathed.  
“What?” Scott pulled back a little bit to scrutinize the other’s face.  
“Pinch me.”

Scott obliged, still looking a bit confused at the request. Isaac breathed a sigh of relief. This is real. Scott McCall just kissed him. His name is Isaac Lahey. He has frequent nightmares and doesn’t like to be touched. And Scott McCall just kissed him.

“Good?” asked Scott with a growing grin.  
“I’m not dreaming.”  
“No.”  
“You just kissed me.”  
“Yes.”  
“Kissed.”  
“You know what that word means, right?”  
_No, you should show me._ “Yes,” he yawned.  
“We should get you to bed.”

Isaac gave a loose nod and allowed himself to be pulled up off the couch by Scott. He had enough sense and energy to walk without the help of Scott, but the thought of keeping Scott’s hands on him sounded like a good idea.

He landed in the bed and snuggled under the covers. When he was situated he stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the fact that Scott was still hovering near the bed. He wasn’t lying when he said he couldn’t sleep. The thought of drifting off to be faced with his worst fears was enough to keep his eyes open past the point of exhaustion.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said, still staring at the ceiling.  
“Yeah, I do.”  
“Why?”  
“To make sure you actually sleep.”  
“No, why did you kiss me?”  
“I… Don’t know.”  
“Right.”

Scott leaned against the wall next to the bed and stared down the floor. Thoughts clawed at each other and let the brief joy he felt cower in a corner of his mind. _Maybe dear old Scott is having second thoughts, Isaac. Not everyone is messed up enough to be like you._ He shooed the jibe away. It wasn’t like that. _What is it then?_ The million dollar question. _And the million dollar answer? Scott’s as attracted to you as you are to him? This isn’t some fucked up fantasy of yours._ But what was wrong with them liking each other? _The hardware doesn’t match up, son._

“You were the first,” Scott said.  
“Kiss?”  
“First kiss with a boy.”  
“You were my second.”  
“What?” Scott peered over at Isaac, abandoning the floor.

Isaac continued to stare at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. The first time he kissed someone was when he was about 12 years old. There was this kid that he’d hang out with before his father would pick him up. They didn’t see each other outside of school, but shared the same lunch period and an English class. One day the boy proposed that they try an experiment. It was stupid, but they kissed. A peck really, more like what you’d do when you’re four. The boy asked him if he liked it because he didn’t. He said no, not wanting to seem weird. Things would have gone back to normal he supposed if his father didn’t show up to see the ordeal. Even if he hadn’t thought of himself as gay then, it was enough evidence for his father.

“It was a long time ago,” was all he said back.  
“Right.”  
“You didn’t answer my question from before.” He tore his eyes from the ceiling and found Scott’s.  
“I did.”  
“You lied. I want the truth.”  
“I wanted to see what it’s like.”  
“To kiss another guy?”  
“To kiss you,” he amended.

If his confidence was a balloon, those three words were a pin. He darted his eyes back up to the ceiling and tried to count sheep. It would be a blessing to fall asleep right now. Blessings weren’t usually what he was dealt though. The ceiling gave no picture of sheep hopping over a fence. It simply scolded him with a stare for his cowardice.

“Isaac.”  
“...”  
“Isaac, say something. Please.”  
“Something.”  
“Isaac.”  
_There it is again._ “I don’t know what to say. I’m tired, Scott.”  
“Are you mad at me or something?” Scott sounded near wounded. _What right did he have to inflect that? What right could he have when he just dumped that sentence on him like that? “To kiss you.”_ Scott sat on the bed to face him, their hips side by side.  
“No, it’s not like that.”  
“What is it then?”  
“I’m just trying to make sense of it. A few days ago you called me your friend.”  
“I -”  
“- And today you kiss me.”  
“It’s -”  
“- And now I can’t fucking sleep because I’m too scared and too wired.”  
“I like you as a friend… And I also like you as a…”  
“As a… ?”

Scott stammered with the phrase for a moment, struggling to finish his thought, then abandoned the quest and kissed him. It was slow yet more insistent than the first one. He followed Scott’s lead, testing licks and nips when they were done to him. Scott’s hand found its way to his jaw and maneuvered him for better access. He let out a small whimper when he inhaled Scott, inadvertently letting Scott’s tongue dip in his mouth. The alpha took his time exploring the other’s mouth, mapping every groove and crevice. All Isaac could do was hold on.

“I also like you like that,” said Scott when he pulled away, keeping his face close.  
“Yeah. I do - I do too.”

Scott smiled that stupid crooked smile of his and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips again. He wasn’t going to get tired of that feeling anytime soon.

“You need to sleep,” whispered Scott.  
“Stay with me,” he requested in a quieter voice, eyes earnest.  
“Okay.”

He nuzzled Isaac’s nose, _nuzzled_ , and climbed into bed with him, leaving a breath between their bodies.

***

Isaac’s not particularly sure when he fell asleep. He does know that it must have been after a bout of ridiculous, over-the-top affectionate touches from Scott. He also knows that there is not a chance in hell he was cuddling Scott when he drifted off, especially not as he is now. It was a familiar position from when they first fell asleep in the same bed: legs tangled, faces close, bodies closer. The only difference being the aphrodisiac known as Scott’s scent and its visible, prominent effect on him.

“Isaac?” said Scott, drowsily.  
_When did he wake up?_ “Scott?” _Don’t notice the boner. It’s a knee, really._  
“Is that your dick?”  
_Nope._ “Yep.”  
“I guess you’re happy to see me.”

Isaac groaned at the idiotic joke and pushed a laughing Scott away, fighting to get out from under the covers. He managed to free himself and made a motion to stand before Scott pulled him back down, tucking his chin over his shoulder.

“Wait,” he said, still giggling a little. Scott McCall was going to be the literal death of him.  
“What? I’d like to get rid of this boner at some point. Maybe find a paper bag to wear.”  
“Stay,” humor drying up.  
“Why?” _You know damn well why._  
“I mean, could I, you know, watch?”  
“...” He shivered at the idea, getting a bit harder.  
“If that’s okay.”  
“Y - yeah. But… Only if we stay like this.”

He was barely sure that he had the courage to go through with the request. He might have a fighting chance if he didn’t have to face Scott. Isaac breathed hesitantly before letting a hand tease over his erection. He could feel the damp heat radiating from it. Fingers grazed and teased the underside of his shaft through the pajama bottoms. He pressed a palm against his head, feeling it twitch under the touch.

He had to bite his lower lip to keep any sounds at bay and slipped his hand beneath the waistband of the flannel bottoms. _Scott’s flannel bottoms._ He started to stroke himself languidly, still teasing. _Gonna make a mess again for Scott? Get his pajama bottoms wet and sticky with cum?_ Isaac pulled his cock out, tucking the waistband. He swiped the head, smearing precum down his shaft; another hand rolled and tugged at his balls. A cut off moan tore its way from his throat as he jerked himself faster, watching his shaft disappear in his grip.

“Isaac…” groaned Scott, pressing close enough that Isaac felt his erection throbbing against his ass.  
“I guess,” huff, “you’re happy to - _fuck_ \- see me.”  
Scott replaced Isaac’s hand with his own, stroking slower and twisting at the wrist. He whined at the touch, massaging his balls with a firmer grip.  
“Shhh, let me take care of you.”

Isaac’s hips bucked helplessly in the air as Scott continued to tease the most sensitive parts of his cock, thumb running along his veins and pressing anywhere that made him whimper.

“Scott, I - _god_ \- wanna - _please_ \- touch y - you too.”

Isaac batted away Scott’s hand, so he could turn around. Scott’s skin was flushed and his tip peaked over the waistband, leaking precum down the front. He had the urge to lick it up and taste, to see how Scott smelled when he was aroused. Instead he straddled the alpha, leaning down so that chest kissed chest. He rolled his hips tentatively, heads swapping precum between them. The friction of Scott’s bottoms on his shaft was downright sinful.

“D - do that again,” Scott stammered out.

He ground down again and Scott thrust up to meet him, eliciting a drawn out, breathy “Fuck” from the alpha. Isaac peppered kisses all over Scott’s face, setting a slow rhythm that was short-lived. Scott rolled them over, holding Isaac’s hands above him and pinning him down with his weight.

“Sco - _please_.”  
“Shh, I’ve got you.”

Isaac was a mess, whimpers and whines and mewls, under Scott’s ministrations: alternating between quick, short thrusts and maddening, leisure rolls that sent electrical shocks down his spine. He was at Scott’s mercy, hips useless against the way Scott held him. He could feel their balls tighten and spasm against each other. Scott kissed him gently and passionately as he sped up again, reaching a hand between them to fondle Isaac’s sack, squeezing and massaging.

Isaac used his free hand to grip both of them, tugging at their cocks hard and fast. Scott mouthed at his neck, nipping and sucking wherever he could. The smell of their sweat and precum made Isaac delirious.

"Isaac," moaned Scott.

And that wrecked tone was all Isaac needed to cum, bucking against Scott as he painted their stomachs, chests and hands. Two more strokes had Scott following suit, spilling his release between them.

They laid there panting for a moment; both coming down from the high, riding out the aftershocks.

Scott found the strength to roll off Isaac, looking at the flushed beta. Isaac absentmindedly licked one of his fingers, tasting their cum.

"Jesus, Isaac," huffed Scott.  
It took a moment for him to process what he did, replying with an "Oh".

"You're gonna end up killing me."  
"Could say the same for you, McCall."

"I'm sorry."  
"What?" _No. No. No._  
"I wanted it to be special. Our first time."

He's going to kill Scott. He just had sex with Scott McCall. He just tasted Scott McCall's cum. And now he has to kill him.

Rather than reply, Isaac gave an indignant huff and kissed Scott, sweet and soft. If seconds were thoughts, disjointed and rapid, passed through kisses; then they'd say:

_Of course it was special._

_I wouldn't trade this for any silly, storybook sex._

_It was supposed to happen this way._

_I care about you more than I should._

_I think I'm falling for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism always welcome!


End file.
